


Aftershocks

by bunn



Series: Mandos [7]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Akallabêth, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Reluctant character development, Second Age, The Valar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 17:23:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18760990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/pseuds/bunn
Summary: Námo has a lot to put up with, but none the less manages some long-overdue character development. Celebrimbor is starting to get over the manner of his death. And Fëanor is (as so often) annoyed, but manages not to let it get to him.





	Aftershocks

To Fëanor’s wary surprise, on this occasion he was not summoned without notice to Námo’s presence, nor did Námo appear as usual, rudely unannounced, in the long hall where the spirits of Fëanor, Maedhros, Caranthir, Amras, Amrod and Celebrimbor awaited the distant ending of the world. 

Instead, Námo sent one of his Maiar to request that Fëanor speak with him.  Fëanor briefly considered refusing, since for once he had been given the option, but curiosity overcame him. 

“Very well,” he said to the Maiar.  It was one of the very smallest ones, which also made a pleasant change from being loomed over by Námo himself. Its feathers puffed self-importantly, but it had bowed to him. “I will come.  My grandson will accompany me.”

He wondered if he would be permitted to get away with that, but the Maia only bowed again. 

“Why me?” Celebrimbor asked. He had been sitting staring at the fingers that were not quite fingers that his spirit had made for him. They were not bleeding or burned this time, at least, and so far as Fëanor could see, they even had fingernails. 

“I thought you might enjoy a change of scene. I would value your support,” Fëanor told him, and laid a spirit-hand gently on his grandson’s scarred shoulder. 

Celebrimbor flinched a little, but then leant towards him, scars blurring into smooth skin. 

They had been trying to keep his mind busy with stories, word-puzzles and riddles, but he still fell back too easily into regret, fear, betrayal and anger; memories of the friend who had been no friend at all in the end. Bright hopes and good intentions cruelly torn apart. 

“No harm reminding Námo that you’re here, either,” Caranthir added. “It really isn’t fair that...” 

“Arda isn’t a fair world,” Maedhros said quietly, bitterly. 

Caranthir exchanged the faintest shimmer of thought with his father and with Amras; concern, impatience, and a veiling overlay of resignation.  “No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “Would you walk through memory with me, Maedhros, while Father and Celebrimbor speak with Námo? Perhaps we could walk through Tirion, this time...” 

Maedhros made a dismissive gesture with his remaining hand, the faintest hint of smoke running through it. He would not go back before Alqualondë.  He never did.

“Mereth Aderthad, then,” Amras suggested helpfully. “Come on Maedhros, none of us went to the feast; we can only see it in your memories. Show us the festival, go on...”  

Amrod drifted over to him and leant against Amras, a faint colouring of grass-green hope washing over his translucent form. 

Maedhros looked annoyed, but the smoke was almost gone from him. His hair was long and shining again, wreathing around him like a crown, and although the light that had shone so brilliantly once in his eyes was dim now, it had not gone out. 

“Come on then,” he said, deliberately patient, the elder brother again.  “Let us dance and hear Maglor sing for a while.” He reached out to take Caranthir’s entirely real and solid-looking hand in his, as Amrod shifted to lean against Maedhros’s other side.

Fëanor smiled. “Ready Tyelpë?” 

Maedhros had steadied him too, and Celebrimbor now looked as Fëanor remembered him, the beloved grandson, young but resolute. He nodded. 

*****

He was not required to wear restraints, this time.  That was also new, and he was glad not to be so humiliated before his grandson as they followed the Maia.  It led them to a long hall lit with great pale flames and decked with webbed tapestries, in which shapes seemed to move and flicker.  Here and there the forms of Elves and Maiar moved, glimmering indistinct or firm in form, according to the nature and the preference of the person. 

Námo was as usual wearing a form that was tall, severe and dark. Fëanor was very used to it by now. He exchanged a thought with his companion:  _ with all the power of the Ainur, you’d think he would choose something more imaginative _ , and was pleased to see the corner of Celebrimbor’s mouth firm and quirk into a smile. 

Beside Namo, was his wife, the lady Vairë, whom Fëanor had seen only once in all the long years that he had spent in the Halls of Mandos. He nodded to her slightly, though Celebrimbor bowed.  Well, he had been young when they had left Valinor, meeting the Valar in person was probably something of a novelty to him. 

“I am here. What do you want?” Fëanor asked Námo directly.  There seemed no point in false politeness. 

Námo looked at him. His face, as always, was inexpressive, but there was something about him, some shadow to his mighty spirit that seemed oddly unsure.

“The world has changed,” he said, slowly, ponderously, and then hesitated. 

Vairë spoke, her voice clear as the note of a great bell.  “The Valar laid down their guardianship. We called upon the One, and the One has changed the fashion of this world beyond all reckoning.”

Celebrimbor, beside him, startled visibly.  Fëanor stood still, grasping at this strange news and turning it in his mind, trying to make sense of it. 

“The World is made round, a ball falling forever through emptiness, dancing around the Sun, and we are removed from it,” Námo said.  “The land of Aman, and all the seas about are sundered forever from the lands and peoples of Middle-earth. I have long seen this chance lying ahead of Arda. Now at last, Eru has moved.” 

“I see,” Fëanor said. He had a thousand questions, but he knew from experience that Námo would not answer them.  Perhaps Father or Fingolfin might be willing to tell him more, if they had gathered news from parts of the wide world that Fëanor was forbidden to concern himself with. “Thank you for informing me.”  At least now he had some idea what questions to ask, if he could find someone who would answer them. 

“We chose to lay down our burden because Men came, against our Law, and they landed a great fleet upon our shores,” Námo went on, somewhat to Fëanor’s surprise.   

Celebrimbor made a muffled whooping sound. “From Númenor?” he demanded. “Elros’s children broke the Ban and sailed into the West?”

Námo looked at him as if he had only just noticed that Celebrimbor was there, but it seemed that he was prepared to answer.  “The King of Númenor, descendant of the half-elf Elros, set foot upon our shores, despite the Law. A great army of Men were with him.”

Vairë bowed her head.  “Eru has set them under the green hills to sleep, and he has struck down the island of Númenor and whelmed it and all its people into the Sea, for they had turned to worship Darkness.” 

“They worshipped darkness,” Fëanor said, anger kindling, but he held it back for Celebrimbor’s sake. “They had joined with the servants of Morgoth?”

Celebrimbor took a step backwards and his entire spirit looked suddenly thin.  His hands were bleeding pale and there were whipmarks curling darkly around him again.  Fëanor, not entirely understanding, but concerned, reached out to lend him strength.

Celebrimbor steadied under the warmth of Fëanor’s touch. “ _ All _ of them?  I don’t... I can’t believe that. Númenor was... There were so many people there!  Children. Old men...” 

“Yes,” Námo agreed again. “Some few have fled in ships to Middle-earth.  But most of them are gone beyond the world to the judgement of Eru. In this matter the House of Fëanor had its part.”

“What?” Fëanor said, startled.  “Was Makalaurë there?” 

Námo shook his head impatiently. “It was Morgoth’s servant Sauron brought doom to Númenor, he who made the Rings of Power with the aid of the House of Fëanor.”

Celebrimbor had clearly been braced for this: he barely flinched. 

“It is hardly just to say that my House had a part in this!” Fëanor exclaimed, and if Celebrimbor had not been beside him, he might have given in to the impulse to strike out in frustration, even though he knew it pointless.  But Celebrimbor deserved more of him than that, this time. “My grandson was betrayed and slain by one who named himself an envoy of the Valar. He could not have known, cannot in any way be blamed for Sauron’s actions. You certainly cannot blame him for what his murderer did afterwards!”

“Ignorance does not excuse pride nor folly,” Námo said dispassionately. “Sauron gained strength through the arts of your House, Fëanor son of Finwë.”  Celebrimbor’s eyes were wide and fixed. 

Fëanor glared at the Valar. “If you had only taken Sauron prisoner when his master fell and held him safely, my grandson would never have met him,” he pointed out. “Celebrimbor would be alive, and working to preserve peace and healing in Middle-earth.”

Námo looked down at him with heavy-lidded eyes.  “This thought also has come into the minds of the Valar,” he admitted.  

Vairë moved, and her silks rustled around her.  She held out a long slender hand. “Every thread has meaning,” she said. “None of us is Eru, nor could be, nor would wish to be. The fall of Númenor is a bitter reminder of that, one which is full of grief. None of us in Arda sees the thread spun, the warp, the weft and the finished work all together, not even my husband here.” 

Námo bowed his head to his wife, and she took a step towards Celebrimbor and picked from his shoulder a single fine strand of hair that clung there. He regarded her warily. 

“You are not alone in thinking with sorrow of the many people of Númenor, Ringmaker,” she said, winding the strand of hair between her fingers.  “Námo sees more of Eru’s thought than any other in Arda, yet what he sees is the grand design,or part of it, at least. He is a Doomsman, not a maker.  Making is your path and mine, but it is not his path. Though Eru sees each single thread and the whole work also, we cannot. And so, it may be, that striving to do as Eru would wish, the Valar have lost sight, a little, of the threads.”

“And that imperils the greater pattern,” Fëanor said, completing the thought. 

“That we cannot know,” Námo said quickly.  “The greater pattern is seen in full only by Eru.”

Vairë said, “Since this great change in the world, I have been thinking much of the Law, and of the thought of Eru. And so I wish to speak with you, Fëanor son of Míriel, who also has changed the world in his way, though the path you trod was laid before your feet by our Enemy.”

“I swore to follow Morgoth and have revenge,” Fëanor said unwavering as a flame in the stillness before the storm. “And in the end, even the mighty in the Ring of Doom followed in my steps, even as I foretold you would.”

“And from that, great grief came.  But if we had refused the path, there too grief lay.  It is clear there is no escaping it.” 

“And what is your point?” Celebrimbor enquired, with admirable brevity, Fëanor thought. 

Vairë smiled, a smile that was kind, if altogether too knowing, unwound the hair from her long fingers and held it taut between her hands. 

“We are resolved we must be more precise,” she said.  “Every hair, the flight of every sparrow, every thread.” 

“Our judgement in the matter of the threat of Fëanor against his brother,” Námo said, abruptly. “It was excessive, and is withdrawn.”

“And the Doom upon our house? The anger of the Valar, and the decision that my House shall never leave your halls?” Fëanor asked, not daring to hope. 

“For the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, your doom is just,” Námo said. “We withdraw our anger, but my judgement remains. Fëanor led the attack at Alqualondë. His sons are doubly doomed; by the ruin of Doriath, and most of all, by their attack upon their kin at the Havens of Sirion.”

“My grandson did not attack Doriath or the Havens,” Fëanor said cuttingly.  

““Ignorance does not excuse pride nor folly,” Námo repeated. Fëanor rolled his eyes, and was pleased to see Celebrimbor manage a smile at his expression.  He smiled back. 

“I would not say that I was proud,” Celebrimbor said.  “A fool, perhaps, to trust too much, but that at least is a mistake that I can say the Valar have made too, and perhaps with less excuse than I had.”  He turned to the Lady Vairë, and bowed gracefully. “A boon I beg from you, my lady, since you say that you have a care even for the least of threads woven through your work. Because I was a maker, and so are you... and so too is my grandmother Míriel.” 

Vairë raised her head, bright with hanging tassles and close-wound thread, in obvious surprise.  “A boon?”

“Your husband does not favour my House. Speak with Lord Námo on my behalf, and ask for me that my father Curufin and my uncle Celegorm be returned to stay with us within these Halls. There is no danger to it. Even Morgoth himself could not leave these halls against your will.  My father is dear to us all, and we would have him be with his family.” 

Námo frowned. “You disowned his deeds long ago.  Now you would call him father?” 

“He is my father, and I love him,” Celebrimbor said steadily, meeting Námo’s strange eyes. “I have endured much at the hands of the Ainur, and I do not believe I have earned harsh treatment from you.  Long ago, you spoke my doom, not for what I had done, but for my name and family. It was unjust to doom me in anger, and I have long wanted to tell you so.” 

Fëanor almost spoke to support him then, but if Námo was inclined to listen to Celebrimbor, he had never shown any inclination to listen to Fëanor.  He kept quiet. 

Vairë frowned, her long pale face thoughtful.  “We have agreed already that the anger of the Valar is withdrawn. I see no harm in this request, Námo; I grant the boon that Celebrimbor asks for, and join my voice to his.  What harm can it do for them to be together?”

Námo’s long eyes narrowed. “They bow to no authority but their father, and are a vexation to me and to the Maiar of my halls.”  

Vairë raised her pale eyebrows, and in return, Námo gave a long blink, like a cat.  Then he bowed his cowled head a little. “I spoke in anger,” he agreed. “And in the case of Celebrimbor, I ... spoke with too much haste. Though he is of the House of Fëanor, it is not the law of the Valar to make war upon the children for the sins of their fathers. Eru overturns the laws, for he is beyond them, and beyond all of us, but I am the Judge of the Valar, and it is not for a judge to speak in anger, or in levity, but only in accordance with the Law.”

Fëanor snorted incautiously at that. Námo shot him a look that still had a gleam of irritation in it, whatever his words said. 

“So my father will be returned to us?” Celebrimbor persisted. 

“Curufin and Celegorm are in the hands of Fingolfin the King,” Námo said snappishly. Fëanor stared at him in outrage. “If Fingolfin agrees, then they can be housed with the rest of the sons of Fëanor.” 

“Thank you, Lord Námo, Lady Vairë,” Celebrimbor said, and his hand on Fëanor’s arm was strong as steel.   

“Very well then!” Fëanor said, and turned to go before he could be dismissed, snapping his fingers at the small feathered Maia who came running up on feathery clawed feet as he saw them leaving, to lead their way back to their place.

“Well done, Tyelpë,” Fëanor said, once he had mastered his annoyance and felt safe to speak. “I wonder what was behind all that?” 

“It sounds as though the fall of Númenor has shaken them,” Celebrimbor guessed.  A shudder ran through him. “It has shaken me, too, for that matter.”

“Yes. I wonder what exactly Eru has done, and how and why..." he shook his head, frustrated. "A round world! Who would have thought such a thing possible... I suppose we'll probably never know now how it operates. Still, you handled them very prettily. I was very much impressed.” 

Celebrimbor’s spirit had relaxed into semi-translucency again, but the light within him blushed a pale and delicate rose in response to his grandfather’s praise. “I learned a thing or two about negotiation, in Middle-earth,” he said, and then hesitated. “Would you like me to speak to Fingolfin for you, about my father and Celegorm, Grandfather?” 

Fëanor shook his head.  “That is for me to do,” he said. “It shouldn’t be too hard. I have spoken with him a good deal since the days when every word seemed loaded with meanings sharp as knives and bitter as embers.”  Then he smiled, and for the first time in a long and weary time, he found a little laughter bubbling in his heart. “But I can’t wait to tell Fingolfin that the Valar have withdrawn their judgement of me, about holding him at swordpoint.”

 


End file.
